


rose

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stanford Era, implied wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: December 4, 2003. Sam needs to keep his mind occupied.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Rose_ , track three of _Mer de Noms_

_when push comes to pull comes to shove_  
_comes to step around this_  
_self-destructive dance that never_  
_would've ended 'til I rose,_  
_I roared aloud here—_

 

It's raining outside—a windy, blustery kind of rain, unusual for Palo Alto. Sam's kicked back in his too-small desk chair, looking out the window while his paper for Haber's class finishes printing. On the third floor he's got a decent view of—well, mostly the parking lot between Toyon Hall and the conference center, but he can also watch the trees shuddering in the wind, the way the afternoon's gone dark and ominous. He drums his fingers against his thigh, restless.

The printer judders to a halt and he swivels, reaching over the tilted back of his chair to grab his essay, still warm. He's done revising, but he still rereads, every time, because it seems like it's always after he's printed the damn things that he finds the typos—but, no, he's good. He flicks back to the first page. _Identity Politics in America, 1981—1989._ He realizes he's smiling, kind of, as he staples the twenty pages together, shoves it into his poli-sci folder. He's going to get an A, he knows he is. He sticks the folder in his backpack, zips it closed. It's a good feeling—shoving forward, to the future, one step at a time.

There's a chime from his phone where it's plugged into the wall and his stomach lurches, a little. It always does. Maybe always will. He flips the phone open, swallows, and—no, it's fine. It's Zach. _Coming out tonight?_

He drops the phone on his bed, stretching. Thursday night and he's done with all his homework for the weekend. He really should—go out, meet people. More than just the people he formed study groups with freshman year. He's still feeling weird, though, restless and strange. Been a while since he's gone for a run—that's something he was able to keep, after, even if he's dropped the target practice and the PT-style reps and the sparring. Though, hard to spar without a partner. He shakes his head. Yeah, maybe a run—but, no, it's raining, and he's not training for anything, now. Doesn't have to subject himself to that. He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do, anymore.

He falls onto his back on the narrow mattress. Zach's message is still sitting there unanswered. He scrolls through his previous texts—Zach, Brady, Brady, Mike, Satheesh, Becky—and drops the phone back onto the mattress. Scrubs his hands over his face, stares up at the ceiling. Drops a hand down to his belt, a little further. Maybe, he thinks, and pulls his knees up, cups himself through his jeans. He hasn't, in a while. He strokes a thumb over his balls, where they're sitting heavy under the warm thin denim, and tries not to think of anything beyond that it feels good, it could be some kind of stress relief. From somewhere floats up a random memory, _thinking too hard, Sammy?_ , soft and teasing, and he snatches his hand away, sits up and gets his feet on the floor, a hot flush of anger-shame-annoyance flushing through him head to toes. It's the past, it doesn't matter anymore, he can't let it—and then there's a hammering knock at his door.

"Open up, nerd!" gets shouted through the door, and it may not be finals week yet but Sam's dorm-mates are tense at the best of times, and Sam scrambles to open up because he knows the yelling will just get worse if he doesn't.

"I don't think they heard you at the stadium, you wanna be a little louder?" he says, yanking the door open, and Brady's all grins as he shoves past Sam into the little room.

"Figured you were sleeping or studying or jerking off, three things that you've got no reason to be doing at five in the afternoon," Brady says, plopping onto Sam's bed like he owns it. Sam rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and Brady's eyebrows go high and delighted. "Oh my god, you were!"

"Shut up, dude," Sam says, and hopes to god he's not blushing as he drops down into the chair. He jerks a thumb at his open laptop. "Just finished my paper for Haber, if that'll get you off my back."

Brady huffs. "My friend, if you think that'd get me off your back, you obviously don't know me that well." He shoves his rain-wet hair back from his forehead, and his eyes are a little bloodshot, but he's looking at Sam steadily enough. "Buddy, you have got to get out of this room. You study like you're trying to win a bet with someone, and frankly it's starting to get worrying."

Sam's chest tightens, but he snorts. "Some people actually want to get a degree, since we're in _college_ ," he says, trying to keep it light, and Brady rolls his eyes.

"Hey, my dad's very generous donation to the school is as good a bribe to keep me here as there is," he says, mock offended, and Sam smiles, can't help himself. Brady grins back, immediately. "There he is. But seriously, man—you've got to come out tonight. Zach's got a couple of kegs, but it's gonna be pretty lowkey, and there's this girl you have got to meet."

Sam groans, get to his feet. "Brady, this is like the fifth time—" he starts, and Brady stands up, too, waving his hands to cut Sam off.

"I know, I know, but dude, this is the one," he says. "She's in my art history class, she's super hot, long legs, blonde hair, great rack—"

"Why don't you date her, then?" Sam says, folding his arms over his chest.

Brady snorts. "Not looking for anything long-term, dude," he says, and then goes sort of serious—as serious as he ever does, anymore. He knocks an easy punch against Sam's shoulder, then rests his hand there, looking up at Sam, and there's the friend Sam remembers. "It'll be good for you. This whole thing's supposed to be about finding yourself, living a little, you know? Figuring out who _Sam_ is."

"I think I've got that one," Sam says, and pushes Brady's hand off his shoulder, but gently. He goes over to his sink, splashes some water on his face. It's what he wanted, after all. A life, of his own—he wasn't going to be a martyr to a cause he didn't believe in. No matter what it cost. He scrubs at his face, blows out a breath into the towel. "What's her name?" he says, finally. Time to stand up to the past, for real.

He looks up and in the mirror Brady's watching him. "Jessica," Brady says, smiling. "You'll love her."

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/155822121109/rose)


End file.
